


A Matter of Taste

by edenbound



Series: shanaqui's Comfortember Fics [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Crowley is napping. It's a less than attractive past-time, taken piece by piece, and yet Aziraphale finds himself tempted.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: shanaqui's Comfortember Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015975
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	A Matter of Taste

Crowley is asleep.

Taking each detail individually, Aziraphale is hard-pressed to say that he looks attractive. His hair is sticking up an odd angle which simply wouldn't be _allowed_ were he awake. His lovely eyes are closed tightly, and Aziraphale considers it a shame that they're hidden so often, in one way or another, so he can't really approve. Crowley's eyebrows are scrunched together, wrinkles appearing between them, as if something is puzzling him. His mouth is slightly open, and were it not for a discreet miracle on Aziraphale's part, he would be drooling onto the pillow (black satin, of course; Crowley's flat is so terribly monotone). His limbs are thrown every which way, and though his shirt has ridden up and his jeans have ridden low, there is nothing of intentional sensuality in it and instead, it simply strikes Aziraphale as untidy.

Or it should. But the whole is greater than the sum of all those parts, and Aziraphale is aware of an itch at the back of his mind, where he kept his regard for Crowley locked away tightly until very recently: a tempting whisper which wants him to be closer, to give in to that languorous delight with Crowley, instead of just watching him. It sounds a little like Crowley.

And there's no reason to say no to Crowley anymore. Nor is there any reason to ration his miracles. Aziraphale sets down his book -- it's a dusty old thing, anyway, and normally that would be riveting, but not with Crowley sprawled there like that -- and performs a brisk set of miracles. The sofa is suddenly a bed, Crowley's boots are suddenly off, and a feather duvet that's light as a cloud and beautifully warm is settling down in puffy drifts over him. Aziraphale bends down to untie his shoes and carefully set them aside. Undoes his waistcoat and slips it off. He hasn't got a pair of pajamas here, but he finds some miraculously, underneath the pillow of the bed (which is still, quite honestly, coming to terms with its new shape).

Crowley rolls over as Aziraphale gets into the bed. "Bet' not be tart'n," he says. Aziraphale slides an arm around him.

"It's a very tasteful colour," he promises Crowley, but he's already asleep again. Which is just as well, because Aziraphale's sure their definitions of "tasteful colour" don't precisely (or at all) match. It is a _dark_ tartan, though, with thin stripes of red: Aziraphale isn't a _monster_ , and Crowley's flat wouldn't know what to do with a nice bright duvet. He'll have to introduce it slowly, by degrees.

But that's for later.


End file.
